


Behind the fortress

by DawningDay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring Greg Lestrade, Eventual Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Gen, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft Angst, Mycroft Feels, Nightmares, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:02:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29521269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DawningDay/pseuds/DawningDay
Summary: Following the events of Sherrinford, Mycroft chooses to hide himself away rather than face his own vulnerability. Luckily, there are people in his life every bit as stubborn as him!(Eventual Mystrade)
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 10
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My Original Character of Evangeline Holmes was one i had created even pre- season 4, borne out of a desire that Mycroft have at least one source of comfort throughout what otherwise seemed a dismal childhood.  
> Though she features in the beginning of this story, her role is to pave the way to the entrance of Greg Lestrade, who slowly convinces Mycroft to let down his guard.
> 
> Constructive and kind comments always appreciated.

“Mycroft!” 

Having had no answer from the buzzer, Eva banged hard on the door. 

“Mycroft!” No response. 

She looked straight into the security camera positioned to the left of the porch, “I know you're in there and I know you can hear me. You may as well open the door because I'm not going anywhere until you do.”

There was a audible click as the occupant inside pressed the intercom buzzer and yet a pause before he spoke. 

“Evangeline, this isn't a good time. I'm extremely busy with work –“

“Like Hell you are, Mycroft. Nobody has seen or heard from you in 4 days! Now open this door.”

Evangeline Holmes crossed her arms impatiently and waited. Sure enough she heard the clunk of latches being unlocked and the door slowly opened. The Mycroft Holmes of old was a man who seldom knew defeat, but it was the shadow of that man who stood in that doorway and - though Eva knew allowing the shock she felt to show was less than helpful – she knew that he wouldn't have missed the fleeting involuntary expression upon her face. It wasn't simply the fact that he had lost weight – though he had, she could tell be the way his usually perfectly tailored clothes hung around him – but his very stature, usually so tall and proud, seemed to have shrunk. He stood as though he wished to evaporate from the space he occupied. His clothes were more casual than one was used to seeing, but that was understandable when one considered that he hadn't been to work in more than a week; but it was the notable crumpled nature of his clothing which was the giveaway to Eva. Clearly he had not bothered to send his clothing to be washed and pressed, as he did weekly without fail. His hair was unkempt in a way she had never seen and his eyes – red rimmed with exhaustion – had black rings beneath them. He looked wretched. The irritation borne of her concern melted in an instant, but she found no words to say.

“Can I come in?” She asked, quietly. 

“I have a choice?” The old sarcasm was there but without its usual punch. He sounded utterly exhausted but moved aside slightly and motioned for her to step inside. 

Eva removed her coat and hung it on the stand.

“May I offer you tea?” He spoke with a formality customary of Mycroft Holmes, but the more comfortable familiarity he usually shared with his younger sister was absent. 

“Please", replied Eva, who felt suddenly ashamed of her tenacity. 

She followed him into the kitchen where he began scooping tea leaves into a china teapot. Clearly her insistence had caused some offence. There was still a frostiness about him but she noted the way his hands shook slightly. She knew she had to do better. 

“Look, My - I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so... forceful or impose. I was just worried. You've not replied to any of my calls or messages and when I heard you hadn't been in work either-"

“I understand", he replied, slightly mollified, his tone having lost a touch of it’s sharpness. “- but I assure you that I'm perfectly fine here. I'm a little tired, as you may imagine, and so I took myself off piste for a few days.”

Eva hesitated, knowing how what she was going to say would be received, but also knowing that she couldn't avoid the conversation. 

“Mycroft-“ she began haltingly, “My-, Lady Smallwood got in contact with me earlier today. She was concerned.”

Mycroft looked predictably alarmed. “But- but I told her. I didn't just vanish. Everything was in order before I-"

“She said you've not been yourself", Eva cut in. “She said it was clear in your work and she was...worried.”

Mycroft now looked horrified. 

Eva felt her heart constrict as she looked at his stricken face. It was heart breaking to see him struggling to rebuild the old fortress around himself when in actuality the walls were shattered beyond all semblance. Only fragile sheets of glass remained, through which the raw and broken eldest Holmes was entirely visible. It was a naked vulnerability the likes of which he had never experienced, and the humiliation he felt in knowing that everybody – even his colleagues – knew was unbearable to him. Eva fought the urge to hug him. Whilst theirs was a relationship which held a genuine warmth and affection – the likes of which he seldom allowed himself to experience with anyone else – he was still rarely physically affectionate and not at all tactile. Whilst an occasional hug or touch had featured, instinct strongly told Eva that now was not the time and so she restrained herself, with some difficulty. 

“Mycroft”, she spoke placatingly, “there's no gossip happening here. This was a long standing friend and colleague who was concerned and confided in your sister, who she knew you could trust. In terms of your work itself, even at half capacity you're still three times ahead of anyone else, but you're just not yourself and she thought you needed someone.”  
Mycroft stood as though frozen, panicked fragments of thought racing through his fogged mind. 

“Shall I?...” Enquired Eva, gently, gesturing towards the half made tea. Her words appeared to jar Mycroft back to the present, as he started slightly, looking down at the unfilled teapot he held in trembling hands. 

Eva gave him a small reassuring smile before taking it from him and silently began filling the kettle and collecting tea cups. Mycroft watched helplessly for a moment before pulling out a chair at the table and dropping into it, his chin resting on his interlocked fingers, deep in anxious contemplation. 

“Here.” His sister’s voice broke through again, as she slid him a cup and saucer and sat herself at the table, her eyes upon him. He took a cautious sip and felt himself relax ever so slightly. After a few moments, he spoke

“Has it really been four days?”

Eva nodded. “yes. You didn't realise?”

He shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and took another sip of his tea. 

“I haven't been sleeping very well. With the sleeping pills -" he paused, “- I think I must have lost track of time.”

“When did you last eat?”

Mycroft thought for a moment. “I don't know” he admitted. 

“I'll make you something,” Eva replied, softly. 

Mycroft chewed slightly on his bottom lip and gave a slight nod of gratitude. 

“Thank you.”

Eva pushed back her chair and rose from the table, “oh!” She suddenly exclaimed, “before I forget. Greg Lestrade -"

Mycroft’s eyes were suddenly alert. 

“He's been trying to get in contact with you too. Told me to tell you ‘the offers still there’.” She looked quizzically at him for a moment. “I'm sure it makes more sense to you.”

Mycroft gave a non-committal gesture and hoped to appear nonchalant, whilst he inwardly groaned with embarrassment. Greg Lestrade had been one of the first people he had spoken to after the Sherrinford incident. For some reason, the man had seemed to take it upon himself to ensure that Mycroft was cared for in the immediate wake of the incident. Such was his state of shock and exhaustion at the time, he couldn't recall the exact nature of that evening; except that he had talked. A lot. Half delirious babble much of it, undoubtedly, yet he burned with humiliation to think of how much of himself he had likely revealed of himself on that darkest of evenings.   
He started out of his thoughts to see his sister's eyes still on him. 

“He's a good man", she said quietly, before turning to make her way to the kitchen, leaving Mycroft to his thoughts.

_____________________________________________

 _This was a mistake_ , thought Mycroft grimly, straightening his tie for the umpteenth time. Utter insanity. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece again, although he knew barely a minute had passed since he last looked. He probably isn't coming. He didn't know whether the notion brought relief or depressed him further. Hard to tell.   
Suddenly came a sharp knock at the door, followed by the jarring sound of the buzzer. Though waiting for it, Mycroft still jumped slightly. Reaching again to straighten the already straight tie and squaring his shoulders, he walked down the hallway and pulled open the door. 

A man stood in the porch way, slightly hunched with the cold, his hands tucked in his pockets for warmth, his silver grey hair windswept. He gave an easy grin, “hey, sorry I'm a little late. Bloody freezing out there. Car wouldn't start.”

Mycroft gave an awkward, tight-lipped smile and wished he could think of something to say. The man didn't seem in the least perturbed by this silent welcome however. 

“Mind if I come in? I'm freezing my arse off out here.”

“Of course, Detective Inspector”, Mycroft replied, returning to formality in the way he always did when he felt ill at ease. 

“Relax Mycroft”, came the reply as he stepped over the threshold; the merest hint of a chuckle in his voice. “This isn't an inquisition. As I told you before, call me Greg.”

“As you wish. Gregory.”

Greg Lestrade took a mouthful of hot coffee, placed the cup upon the coffee table and leaned comfortably back into the sofa, with a satisfied sigh. Mycroft meanwhile sat straight-backed, touching his own cup to his lips, taking a cautious sip. 

Greg watched him in curious interest. “I hope you don't mind me saying, but you seem a little tense. You doing ok?”

Mycroft gave a reserved smile. “Apologies. I'm unaccustomed to entertaining guests. Other than, occasionally, my sister", he added. “My work periodically calls for social gatherings but I keep them to a strict minimum and never at my address. I prefer not to mix my work and personal life.” 

“I'm honoured then", replied Greg with a grin. 

“Rather", admitted his companion.

“Well, just – relax – ok?” Greg encouraged. “ I know this has been a shit time- putting it mildly - but I'm not here to force you to talk about anything you don't want to, or anything at all for that matter!” He shrugged, “frankly, you want to sit and discuss the weather, fine with me!”

“Why are you here?”

Momentarily taken aback, Greg threw his hands behind his head and gave a laugh. “Well, mainly because you asked me! But, look...” he adjusted his position slightly in the chair, leaning forward sightly so as to be closer to Mycroft. “Honestly, when I first met you I didn't know what to make of you, but I feel I've started to get to know you better of late – the man within the suit so to speak...” He paused. “I like you", he added, boldly. “and I'd like to be friends.”

“I fear you may be setting yourself up for grave disappointment, Gregory. I'm not certain that I'm cut out to be anyone’s ‘friend’.”

Greg Lestrade grinned. “I'll take the risk.”

After half an hour or so, when it became clear that Greg was true to his word about not pressing any kind of difficult conversation, Mycroft felt himself starting to relax. Greg mainly chatted about various aspects of work and didn't seem to mind taking the lion’s share of the conversation. Mycroft was surprised by how much he found himself enjoying listening to the man talk and found himself purposely prolonging the conversation, with a half-guilty realisation that he didn't want it to end and for him to leave. Finally however, Greg glanced at his watch. “Shit, is that the time? I think I've taken up enough of your evening.”

“Not at all", replied Mycroft, meaning it. 

“Well, it's been nice", Greg said, smiling warmly. “Let's do it again at some point.” He stood and reached out his hand to Mycroft, grasping it in a warm handshake before patting his pockets to check for his keys. “Hope that bloody car starts", he added. He fixed Mycroft with a playful smile, “if not, bring us out a warm cuppa in the morning will you?”

“Why don't you stay?”

The words were out of Mycroft’s mouth before he’d even knowingly thought about them. 

_Shit. You idiot_

He felt his colour rising and fought to cover his discomfort. “I mean to say, I have plenty of guest bedrooms and you're very welcome.”

Greg however seemed completely unperturbed. “Uh, yeah- great. Why not? Thanks very much.”

Mycroft carefully concealed his relief but inwardly felt a little disconcerted. He wasn't prone to rash decisions; every move, every decision he ever made was carefully calculated, yet he had just invited a man he barely knew – but already knew far too much of him – to stay the night. He looked over at Greg – already settling back onto the sofa – and made up his mind to just see how the evening played out. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep lowers all guard. In the aftermath of a horrific nightmare- in which Mycroft relives the horrors of Sherrinford-- he allows himself to accept support and comfort from Greg.

Mycroft’s breath came in short, painful gasps. There was no way out. No way to help her. The other side of the glass - a little way across the room - lay a lifeless mass. Dark brown hair, so much like Sherlock’s, fell partly over her face. And there was blood. Pools and splashes of it over the floor and on the walls. Matted in with her hair. Mycroft battered hopelessly against the walls of the cell but there was no-one to hear his screams. His sister was dead or dying and he could do nothing. He battered himself futilely against the walls until he bled, before sinking to the ground in exhaustion and despair.   
He didn't know how long he lay there, but a sudden sound made him lift his head. 

“Sherlock! Thank God -" but his words died in his throat. Sherlock’s eyes were fixed coldly upon his brother as he advanced with the gun. Mycroft struggled to stand. 

_I deserve this. I deserve his hatred_. 

Sherlock paused. “Remember me", before turning the gun to himself; pulling the trigger...

Greg woke with a start to the sound of the most blood curdling scream. Dressed in his boxers and a T-shirt, he didn't think twice but leapt from his bed and out into the hallway; alert to where the scream had come from. It took only seconds for him to realise, from the ongoing frantic sounds, that it was coming from Mycroft’s bedroom. Without further hesitation he wrenched open the door. 

Mycroft stood – half hunched over – on the far side of the room. His eyes were wild and terrified. Panicked and disorientated, he didn't seem in a fully conscious state or aware of his surroundings. His breath came in short, painful gasps and his hands desperately searched the walls as though trying to find a way out. Terrified of doing the wrong thing and spooking him further, Greg approached slowly and cautiously.

“Mycroft.”

No response. 

“Mycroft?” He spoke slowly. Reassuringly. “Mycroft, it’s Greg. You're ok. You're at home. You're safe. Everything is ok.”

Mycroft swung towards him, still wide eyed and frantic. He seemed dimly aware that someone had spoken but Greg was certain he hadn't heard the actual words. He trembled from head to foot. Greg approached closer still, walking slowly, careful not to make any sudden movement or sound. He held his hands out in front of him, palms forward to show he was no threat. As he reached his friend he risked placing a light hand on Mycroft’s arm. He reacted wildly, crying out and swinging his arm around in panic, catching Greg in the temple. Greg did not break the contact however. 

“hey, hey hey... I got you. I got you... you're ok. Here...” glancing over his shoulder, he pulled a cushion off the bed and pressed it to the palm of Mycroft’s hand. As he had hoped, the steady, grounding pressure of something firm and flat against his hand seemed to bring him slightly to his senses. His terrified gaze fell on the man beside him and Greg felt sure he had seen him for the first time. Shaking uncontrollably, his forearms shielding his face, he sank to the floor. Greg's arms around him. 

Mycroft sat on the bedroom floor, propped up by the bed. Suddenly aware of the streaming, hot tears upon his face, he fought hard for every breath. His chest felt tight and every breath was agonising. He was frightened. He couldn't breathe, he was going to die. 

_“As well you should”_ , said the voice in his mind

“you’re ok" came a softer, kinder voice. “You’re having a panic attack. It feels like Hell, I know, but you can breathe. You’re ok. Look...” he placed one of Mycroft’s hands against his own chest “... feel my breathing. Just try and match mine... slowly...there you go"

Slowly, painfully, Mycroft’s breathing began to slow and – fifteen minutes later – he sat, hunched on the floor, exhausted and shaking, breathing normally but barely able to keep his eyes open. 

“Do you think you can stand?” came Greg's voice.

Mycroft tried to speak but his exhaustion was such that he couldn't make a sound. He couldn't seem to stop his body from shaking and nor could he stop the tears which still coursed down his cheeks.   
Wrapping his arms around him, Greg hoisted Mycroft to his feet and helped him to the bed. Mycroft collapsed onto it. As Greg released his hold and began to straighten up Mycroft’s hand closed suddenly around his arm. He was suddenly hopelessly afraid to be left. Greg appeared to understand this however,

“it’s ok. I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay right here with you.” He looked across at his friend, “that ok?”  
Summoning up all the energy he could muster, Mycroft answered, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Thank you.”

Utterly depleted and without the energy to feel any sense of shame, Mycroft fell into sleep, entangled in Greg's warm embrace .

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking to memories of the previous night, Mycroft seeks to cover his humiliation by pushing Greg away. Will Greg see through his facade?

For a couple of moments upon waking, Mycroft lay with his eyes still closed, savouring the peaceful stillness; the calming sound of deep, steady breathing beside him. 

_Hang on –_

His eyes snapped suddenly open and fixed on the source of the noise, a deeply slumbering Greg. The memories of the previous night began to seep into Mycroft’s mind like poison, making his stomach clench with anxiety, humiliation and shame. As comforted as he had been by Gregory Lestrade's presence last night, he now wanted nothing more than to get him out of the house as quickly as possible. His mind whirring, Mycroft inched his way out of the bed – taking every care not to wake his companion – and edged from the room. 

Mycroft was downstairs in the kitchen when Greg entered

“Hi.”

He spun around. Tousle- haired from sleep, Greg was still in the T-shirt in which he had slept. He was barefoot, though had pulled on a pair of dark jeans. He was smiling warmly, however Mycroft noticed his eyes narrow slightly in puzzled bemusement as he took in what he himself was wearing. 

“You – ummm, usually wear a full suit for breakfast?” He asked, in a tone of polite bewilderment.

Ignoring the gnawing, burning shame, Mycroft drew himself to his full height and looked towards Greg in the somewhat supercilious fashion which had often been his trademark. 

“Good morning, Gregory”, he replied in a tone of crisp formality. “I'm afraid I am inordinately busy this morning. Do help yourself to whatever you wish for breakfast. I trust you'll be on your way shortly.”

He turned to collect his cup of coffee from the counter but not quickly enough to avoid seeing the hurt confusion on Greg's face. He felt his colour rise slightly and so kept his back turned whilst he needlessly re-stirred his coffee.

“Mycroft.”

Greg's voice was unusually quiet. Mycroft turned back to him, mercilessly playing the role he had played so often before and hating himself for it. _It's better this way_ , he reminded himself. _Better despised than pitied._

“If you have any issues with your car then I have an excellent contact for you. You'll find the number -"  
“Don't do this". Greg's voice was pleading. “I know what you're doing and I know why you're doing it. Just stop.”

Mycroft blinked, “I'm afraid I have no idea what you mean.”

Greg stared at him, slightly open-mouthed. “You're unbelievable. Look-" he held his hands out in a placating gesture, “I understand how and why last night was difficult for you, but I -"

Mycroft cut harshly across him, “you will not tell _anyone anything_ about last night" he began authoritatively, his eyes flashing. “Do I make myself clear?”

Greg's face darkened in anger. “You know what Mycroft? _Fuck you_.” He didn't shout but Mycroft looked as silently stunned as if Greg had taken a swing at him.

“I won't say anything about last night. Never intended to. You know why? Not because of your fucking threats, but because I wouldn't _do_ that to someone I care for.”

Mycroft sagged slightly, like a deflating balloon, his shame at Greg's words clear upon his face. One look at him and Greg's fury abated. He sighed in heavy frustration

“Look", he said, “I get it. I get why last night was hard for you. You've built that fucking fortress around yourself for so long now that I'm not sure even you know what's inside anymore. But you're scared. You're scared _shitless_ of letting anyone see it.” He sighed deeply again, but when his eyes met Mycroft’s this time Mycroft could detect only deep sadness.

“I wanted to be there for you last night. I'm glad I was. For me it changes nothing. I think no less of you.”

Mycroft averted his eyes downwards, unable to meet his eye. 

“I wanted you there too", he mumbled. 

Greg nodded. “Yeah. I know." He paused for a moment, looking over at the elder Holmes, who still did not look up. “Look” he said tiredly, “if you still want me to go, I will. It’s your house. There's nothing being forced on you here.”

“No", replied Mycroft quickly, his voice rather small. “No. Please.” His blue eyes flickered up to meet the brown, “I'm sorry. Please stay.”

Eyes fixed upon Mycroft's, Greg nodded. Mycroft fell back into a kitchen chair at the table, where he sat holding his face in his hands. 

“I told you last night", came his voice, muffled by his hands, “I'm not worth this. I'm not cut out to be a friend or-“, he paused, “anything else." He dropped his arms dejectedly onto the table and looked up, intensely vulnerable in that moment. Greg stepped forward and leaned across the table towards Mycroft. Firmly laying both his hands over Mycroft’s and gripping them tightly, he looked him squarely in the face. 

“And as I told you", he said, “you're worth the risk.”

To be continued...


End file.
